


Everything Sounds Better in Quenya

by Jaiden_S



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaiden_S/pseuds/Jaiden_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor isn’t quite ready to sail. A trip to the ruins of Himring is just the thing to avoid it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Sounds Better in Quenya

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Everything Sounds Better in Quenya  
> Author: Jaiden S  
> Email: jadedone23 at gmail.com  
> Beta: Phyncke  
> Genre: Gen fic, humor  
> Warnings: AU, crude language, absurd situations  
> Prompts: Erestor, Himring  
> Summary: Erestor isn’t quite ready to sail. A trip to the ruins of Himring is just the thing to avoid it.  
> Archive - http://elffetish.com/genfics2010.html

Erestor pointed at the tiny dot on the map. Compared to the large expanse of land that comprised Lindon, it was but a freckle. He leaned down, wrinkled his nose and squinted at it. “That’s the place. Himring.”  
  
Lindir peered over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “It is now called Himling. They changed the name after it sank.”  
  
“It sank?” He knew that, of course, and remembered the sordid details as soon as he voiced the question.  
  
“Sank like a rock right after the War of Wrath. Most of it did, anyway, except the peak of a hilltop and some ruins of the Himring encampment. Are you sure that’s where you want to go?”  
  
“No, but I’m not ready to sail off to Aman, either,” griped Erestor. “I don’t understand why everyone is so eager to leave Rivendell. What is so wonderful about the Undying Lands? And, how do you all intend to pass the time once you arrive? Knitting? Lawn bowling? Debating the merits of a good night’s sleep with Irmo? No, thank you.” Erestor’s squint hardened into a frown.  
  
Ever since Elrond left for Aman a few years prior, sailing was all Lindir ever talked about. It made sense for him to be excited, though, since he had someone waiting for him across the sea. Even the normally level-headed Glorfindel flounced about like an elleth with a suitor when the topic of sailing arose. The whole business of it irritated Erestor to no end, and, frankly, he was tired of discussing it. A trip was just what he needed to clear his mind, and Himling was as far west as one could venture without falling off the edge of Middle Earth. So, Himling it was, sunken or not.  
  
“Nobody is forcing you to sail right this instant.” Lindir placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You can do whatever you like, even decide to remain here indefinitely. You do have a choice.”  
  
“Sure, I have a choice, but it isn’t much of one. I could sail west with the rest you and be bored out of my mind or stay in Middle Earth by myself. It’s like choosing a cave troll over a balrog; neither option is particularly appealing.” Erestor couldn’t imagine anything less interesting than to wander aimlessly around Valinor without rhyme or reason, picking daisies and watching grass grow. Maybe he should toss his lot in with the unwashed race of men who farmed the land near Lindon. At least they had a reason for being dirty.  
  
“Oh, come on, Erestor! Aman will be so much fun! There will be lots to do!” Lindir could hardly contain his excitement. “Why, we’ll start a horseshoe league, and build a bird watching tower and collect seashells-”  
  
“As thrilling as that sounds, I still think I would like to begin my trip to Himling as soon as possible,” interrupted Erestor before Lindir could continue gushing. He gave the wee dot on the map a tap with the end of his fingernail. “It will take quite a while to reach the western shore and I would prefer not to travel during the harshest part winter.”  
  
“I believe Legolas and Gimli are in the area of the Blue Mountains. Perhaps you could travel with them for a time.”  
  
“Absolutely not. I cannot have a hyperactive Elf and a loud dwarf interrupting my thoughts.” Besides, Erestor had heard rumors of the sort of activities that pair got up to when left to their own devices, and he had no desire to discover whether or not the gossip was true.  
  
“As you wish.” Lindir patted his friend’s shoulder. “Once you have made your final arrangements, let me know. I will not let you leave without a proper send-off.”  
  
~*~  
  
Lindir had assured Erestor that the farewell party would be a quiet, understated affair, which, of course, meant that it was a raucous romp, just this side of unseemly. In the midst of a coarse little sing-a-long about bakers and what they’d like to do to a random assortment of tarts, Glorfindel sought out Erestor and plopped himself down on the bench next to him, drink in hand.  
  
“Enjoying yourself?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Nothing says farewell and safe travels like a song about fucking ‘til dawn. Pure class.”  
  
Glorfindel snorted. “Only the best for you, my friend. Besides, it’s in Quenya. Everything sounds better in Quenya.”  
  
“Nalyë indolóra.” _[Translation: You’re insane.]_  
  
“See? Quenya falls from your lips like little droplets of honey. You could tell someone to kiss your ass in Quenya and they’d think you were asking them for tea.”  
  
Erestor rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“It’s a long, cold journey you are making,” said Glorfindel as he took a long draught on his ale. “And a lonely one. Why not just board the ship with the rest of us and sail? Or is it the idea of being stuck on a ship for weeks that drives you to the wilds of Middle Earth?”  
  
Erestor hunched over the table and rested his chin on his laced fingers. “No, it’s not that. I wanted to explore Middle Earth one last time before I had to depart. This is my last chance to do something exciting. And, honestly…I’m just not ready to go. I’d rather stay here. I like it here.”  
  
“Why would you want to remain here? The time of Elves has passed. The time of Men is at hand.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I know. Elrond said it a thousand times before he left. We’re nothing but useless relics of an age gone by.” Erestor’s words came out more clipped and brittle than he intended, and he forced a thin-lipped smile as a way of apology.  
  
Glorfindel grinned. “Not relics. Curiosities, though, certainly. Few men dwelling outside of Lindon or Rivendell these days have even seen Elves. Only those who farm near the edge of city still know of our kind, and as the rest of us sail or pass into the veil, men’s memories of us will fade entirely.”  
  
Erestor shot Glorfindel a skeptical look. “You are saying we have already become the stuff of legends, then, like gargoyles or faeries.”  
  
“So to speak. This very moment, some men believe that Elves are wee little things with pointed ears. You should hear the stories circulating in the pubs.”  
  
“Stop being ridiculous. What of all the contributions Elves have made to Middle Earth? The artwork, the architecture, the language? And what about the Battle of Pelennor Fields? Men surely haven’t forgotten all about us in a few short years.”  
  
“It’s been well over a decade since we spent much time among men. Some of the men of the older generation remember. Most do not. Their memories are fragile, swayed and bent to interpretation, lost to the ebb and flow of the years.” Glorfindel placed his pint of ale on the wooden table and reached out to grasp his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t want to dissuade you from your journey, if that is truly your dream, but do undertake it with the full knowledge that it won’t be easy. When is the last time you traveled extensively? The end of the Second Age?”  
  
“Something like that,” Erestor grumbled. “I don’t care, though. I’m not ready to sail.”  
  
Glorfindel’s familiar chuckle rumbled like the purr of a tamed lion. “Fair enough, then don’t sail, but do make sure you are prepared for the rigors of cross-country travel. To say things have changed since last you ventured out would be a grievous understatement. But, if you are determined to go on a trek across Middle Earth, be sure to pack plenty of clean undergarments and lots of trinkets with which to barter. The ground becomes hard after a few nights and hospitality costs more than a smile.”  
  
~*~  
  
Only a mild headache and a few fuzzy memories of wine and song lingered with Erestor as he rode west early the next morning. The rising sun warmed his back. It felt nice and he smiled to himself. Why would anyone want to leave Middle Earth so soon?  
  
His ultimate destination, Himling or Himring or whatever in Eru’s name they called it now, was weeks away, but that was never the point of the trip; it was the journey he anticipated. Erestor envisioned idyllic cool mornings huddled over a crackling campfire with a steaming mug of tea; Sweeping mountain scenes with snowcapped peaks and vibrant russet-hued valleys; Gurgling brooks and flowing rivers; Fields of high grass painted golden in the setting sun. That was what he longed for. It would be the trip of a lifetime and he would spend however long he needed to spend on the open road to quell the restless throb in his heart. Perhaps by the time he reached Himling, he wouldn’t feel as uneasy about leaving.  
  
The reality of the journey was not quite as he imagined it. Once he left the refuge of Imladris and entered the great untamed valleys beyond Rivendell, the land deconstructed into an unruly undergrowth of briar thickets and jagged shrubs, of knotty oaks and gnarled elms and ragged rocks that lined the dusty roadways. Middle Earth, although beautiful, was wild, chaotic and dangerous. Even the wind howled through the forests like a lone wolf.  
  
As the sun set at the end of his first day of travel, he found a level patch of grass just off the main road to set up camp. Level, as it turned out, was a relative term. No matter where he positioned his knapsack, a spiny bump of earth protruded up high enough to poke him in the bottom, and the sticks he collected for his campfire rolled this way and that, refusing to stay in a neat stack. He hovered over the twigs, blowing and scraping on two bits of flint, praying to every Valar whose names he could remember that a random spark would ignite the haphazard pile. He rubbed and pleaded and scraped and cursed to no avail. Clearly, the Valar hated him.  
  
Erestor sulked and stomped his way back to the cold knapsack and burrowed beneath the blanket. It was probably just his imagination, but the wind seemed to blow even harder once he lay down, biting right through him as if the covers weren’t even there. The colder it became, the tighter into a ball he curled himself, and by morning, he was a stiff knot of arms and legs. His back creaked as he unfurled himself.  
  
“Tea,” he muttered aloud. “My left arm for a warm mug of tea.” Alas, there was no tea to be had, unless he could somehow solve the mystery of starting a fire with a flint stone and twigs. He sighed miserably and pulled his blanket tighter round his shoulders. Glorfindel was right. This was hard.  
  
~*~  
  
After three more desolate days of riding over bleak terrain and sleeping on the cold ground, Erestor had enough. The first glimpse of civilization had him urging his horse to a trot. Surely, if there was a town, there was an inn. An inn, with a soft bed and a warm hearth and a steaming mug of tea. He was giddy with anticipation.  
  
“No, sir, we don’t accept those coins here…whatever they are.” The innkeeper scrutinized the piece of Elvish mithril one last time, then placed the round coin back into Erestor’s palm.  
  
“It’s mithril, and it’s quite valuable,” began Erestor before he was cut off by a wave of the man’s calloused hand.  
  
“If I don’t know it, I don’t want it. Too many travelers try to pass off counterfeit coins as true currency, and guess who gets stuck with the worthless lot of it? Me!”  
  
“But the metal itself is worth something. You could melt it down and…”  
  
“Melt it with what? The heat from my kitchen hearth?”  
  
Dejected, Erestor dropped the coin back into his pouch. “I don’t suppose I could barter my services for a room?”  
  
“Depends on what you have to offer. Are you an entertainer? The pub could use a singer.”  
  
“Not really, no. I only know a few songs, and they’re not meant for polite company.”  
  
“A craftsman?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“A cook?”  
  
“I can boil water…sort of…”  
  
The innkeeper crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Erestor. “What is it you _can_ do?”  
  
Erestor was desperate not to spend another night on the hard ground. So desperate, in fact, that he heard himself blurt out the very thing that he hated to do the most. “I can wash dishes.”  
  
The drafty little room behind the inn was a kitchen in only the loosest sense of the word. It was more of a lean-to surrounding an enormous hearth, with one side of the fireplace for cooking and the other for heating the water for the dishes, and every time the wind blew, Erestor’s teeth chattered. After two hours spent elbow deep in suds, Erestor finally saw the bottom of the washtub. He hoped his room and board would be worth the effort.  
  
The adjoining pub bustled with activity, and Erestor settled in for a bite of stew and a pint of ale. Though the waitress was friendly enough, the rest of the patrons eyed him with the suspicion of a shiny new penny that suddenly turned up in a pile of old buttons. The weight of their eyes was unsettling, and Erestor pointedly ignored them all. That is until one of the men planted himself right at Erestor’s table.  
  
“You ain’t from around here, are ya?” The greasy little troll of a man leaned forward in his chair and scowled up at Erestor. “You look foreign.”  
  
“I’m certainly not foreign,” sniffed Erestor. “I’m Elvish.”  
  
The man hooted with glee. “Hey, fellas! This one here says he’s an Elf!” He thumbed in Erestor’s direction. “And he ain’t even got green skin!”  
  
All at once, the rest of the men surrounded him, pressing their ruddy faces so close that Erestor could smell their foul breath. “He don’t look like an Elf to me. Ain’t they supposed to have wings?” the youngest of the group piped up.  
  
“No, Elves are the little men who guard pots of gold,” said a freckled lad who had a grip on his elbow.  
  
Annoyed, Erestor swatted at the hands that reached out to grope his cloak, touch his skin and paw at his hair. “Those would be leprechauns and, no, I am not one of those. I’m not a fairy with wings nor am I a gremlin with green skin. Each of those beings is mythical, whereas I, as you can plainly see, am quite real. I am an Elf from Imladris, on my way to the coast.”  
  
The fat little man across from him pushed down on the table and stood up to his full height, which, granted, was somewhat lacking. He stood proudly, though, chin in the air and said, “Prove it.”  
  
Erestor was flabbergasted. “Prove it? Prove what? Prove that I am an Elf??”  
  
“You heard me. Elves are supposed to be magic or something, right? Come on, Elf. Dazzle me.”  
  
Erestor had never heard of such nonsense, but the men in the inn now expected something akin to an Elvish dog and pony show. He had no choice. He had to do something.  
  
He rose to his full height, which was considerable, and began to sing the only Quenya song he could remember in the heat of the moment.  
  
_If all of the girls were like pies on a shelf  
And I were a baker, I’d eat them myself.  
Roll your leg over, roll your leg over  
Roll your leg over and fuck me till dawn._  
  
It was debauchery wrapped in a thin veneer of Elvish elegance, but the bar patrons hung on every word of the five verse song as if it were being sung by a radiant angel, and when it was finished, Erestor sank back into his chair to the sound of thunderous applause.  
  
“I reckon he is an Elf , cause I ain’t never heard nobody sing nothing like that before,” exclaimed his rotund admirer. “What was the song about?”  
  
“An honorable baker trying to woo his love with an assortment of pastries,” lied Erestor. “It’s a traditional Elvish song.” The last part wasn’t a lie. It was tradition to sing it once Lindir got drunk enough to play it.  
  
“It sure was pretty,” said the man. He offered his sweaty hand as an apology, and Erestor gratefully shook it. “Sorry for doubting you. Your meal is on me, Elf!”  
  
~*~  
  
The days grew shorter and the nights colder as Erestor’s journey continued. His original vision of life on the open road had been scattered by the same blustery wind that chilled him to the bone each day. Now that he could start his own fire and pay for his meals with a few Quenya songs, travel was easier, but still far from what he had expected when he first considered making the journey. By the time he reached the coast, he welcomed a break from travelling.  
  
The streets of the city ran in an orderly grid from the edge of the forests right down to the sea. The town was larger than he had imagined and teeming with life. Down by the docks, the early morning marketplace boasted a varied assortment of merchants, some offering the last produce of the season, others displaying finely crafted gifts for the upcoming winter holidays. Erestor browsed the tanners’ stalls, though he doubted he could barter a fine leather pouch for a Quenya song about drunken sailors. His money, what little there was left, was to be spent for a charter boat to take him to Himling. Finding someone willing to sail him through the icy waters to an abandoned Elvish outpost on an uninhabited island, though, proved to be difficult. Four men turned him down flat, stating the island was haunted. Wails and cries of restless spirits, they claimed, sometimes floated over the open seas to be heard by sailors and explorers alike. Each man spun a yarn more fanciful than the last, and Erestor began to doubt if he truly wanted to make the journey. At mid-morning he spotted a tall sailor untying his wooden boat from the dock. Erestor rushed over to him.  
  
“Himling? I know it well.” The sailor chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip and eyed Erestor from underneath his woolen cap. “You’re not from around here, are you?”  
  
“No, I’m a traveler,” said Erestor, answering that question for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I left my home in Imladris some weeks ago in hopes of visiting the ruins of the Himring fortress. Can you take me there?”  
  
“Aye. Come aboard, then. The sheep will be happy for the company.”  
  
Erestor wasn’t sure what to make of that last comment, so he just smiled and offered the last of his mithril. “Wonderful.”  
  
~*~  
  
For the next hour, Erestor huddled miserably under an oiled sailcloth, hanging onto the side of tiny wooden boat in white-knuckled fear. The sailor seemed capable enough, but the sea churned and roiled under the bleak autumn sky and a thick fog covered everything in a miserable blanket of gray. Every roll of the sea put Erestor’s breakfast in danger of sudden and immediate expulsion. He groaned and shut his eyes.  
  
“This your first trip sailing?” called the sailor over the thump of the waves against the side of the boat.  
  
“Yes… Is the sea always this rough?” The boat crested the top of a white-capped wave, then slammed hard into the trough with a force that jarred Erestor’s teeth.  
  
“Oh, no. Only today. Yesterday, it was clear as a bell.” The sailor turned loose of the mast long enough to point at a bit of land rising up from the sea. “There it is. Himling”  
  
Erestor rose unsteadily from his crouched position and peered through the sea spray into the distance. Himling rose like a misty specter out of the gloom, gray and craggy and forlorn. No surprise that the men from Lindon thought it was haunted. Though sheer cliffs comprised most of the shoreline, the sailor soon guided the ship through the choppy waves to a small sandy beach on the northeastern side of the island.  
  
“If you’ll catch that dock with your foot, I’ll toss you the rope to tie her up,” called the sailor.  
  
The soft leather of Erestor’s boot scraped lightly over the wooden dock until the little boat came to a rickety stop next to a weathered post. Gingerly he climbed out of the boat, took the rope attached to the bow and began to loop it over the post. That’s when he heard them. The cries.  
  
They were few and faint at first, but the bleats grew louder and more plaintive with every passing second, and before Erestor could turn around, they were on him. Something cold and wet pressed against his thighs and calves, and he whipped around in horror.  
  
“Ah, the sheep are here to greet us,” the sailor said.  
  
“They are ruining my robes!!” Erestor was aghast. The dirty little beasts nudged him with their filthy noses, covering the lower half of his clothes with snout-sized stains. “Ugh! Do they bite?”  
  
The sailor laughed. “Bite? They don’t even have front teeth!” He grabbed the muzzle of an ewe and pried her mouth open with his thumb. “See? She has only enough teeth to chew grass.”  
  
That didn’t make Erestor feel any better, especially since one persistent lamb had latched onto his index finger and was suckling as hard as he could. He snatched it away, but the lamb let out such a wail of discontent that Erestor reluctantly offered his finger once more. The lamb happily reattached himself to it.  
  
“He likes you, that one. He’s called Nibby.” The sailor sniffed at Erestor, who took a giant step backward in response. “Is that cottonseed oil?”  
  
“Yes. I use it on my skin when it gets dry.”  
  
“I use it on the ewes’ udders for the same reason. That would be why Nibby likes you. You smell like mama.”  
  
Erestor forced a smile. “My, won’t he be disappointed.” He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the winding rock-hewn stairs that rose up the cliff behind them. “Where do those lead?”  
  
“Up to my home in what is left of the ruins. Nothing more than a shell of a fortress, the old soldier barracks and a few anterior buildings remain. Join me for a cup of tea?”  
  
Erestor nodded and followed the sailor. The stairs proved to be quite a challenge when holding a wriggling lamb and being closely trailed by three more, but Erestor managed. As he reached the top step, the fog around him cleared, and he somberly surveyed what was left of the ancient fortress. He stood atop a bare peak, treeless and flat on the summit, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. To his right, piles of rotted wood, rusted iron and broken pottery lay in scattered disarray. To his left stood a solid stone-hewn building interspersed with dark gaping doorways. The sailor entered the first one and beckoned for Erestor to join him. “Come in, but leave your friends outside.”  
  
Erestor grimaced and put Nibby on the ground. “Gladly.” The arched doorway opened into what once had been an officer’s barracks, but now served as the sailor’s modest home.  
  
“Have a seat. I’ll put on the tea.” The sailor put the kettle on a grate over a stone hearth and took two teacups from the cupboard nearby. “It’s been a long time since I have had a guest, so pardon my lack of hospitality.”  
  
Erestor sat at the small wooden table and leaned back against the wall. He was tired, more exhausted from the road than he had first realized, so he welcomed the chance to simply relax. The sailor moved gracefully around the sparse kitchen as he prepared the tea. Something about him seemed familiar, almost…Elvish? Erestor frowned and studied the sailor in earnest. Long fingers and limbs. Straight nose. Gray eyes. Yes, all of that was Elvish enough, but it wasn’t until the sailor removed his wool cap and a dark plait spilled down his back that Erestor was convinced.  
  
“You’re a Noldo.”  
  
The sailor grinned and set two cups of steaming tea on the table. “As are you. I knew it the moment you approached me.” He pulled out the opposite chair and joined Erestor at the table. “I’m Hallaran the Noldo.”  
  
“Well met. I am Erestor the unobservant. I didn’t know you were Elvish until you removed your cap.” Suddenly, there were signs everywhere, from the braiding on the Noldo’s collar and jacket cuffs to the etched ring he wore on his left hand. “I should have noticed right away.”  
  
“You weren’t looking for it. I learned a long time ago that most only see what they are looking for, which makes it easy for me to blend in.” Hallaran took a sip of his tea and stared at Erestor pointedly over the top of his cup. “What is it that you are looking for, Erestor? Certainly not sheep.”  
  
Erestor sighed and rested his chin on his hand. “I thought I was looking for adventure, for a chance to see Middle Earth one last time before I left…but now I’ve seen all there is for me to see, and I don’t feel any better about sailing than I did back in Imladris.”  
  
“I certainly understand your hesitation to sail. I share your feelings. Do you know how long I have lived here in Himling?” Erestor shook his head. “Almost two thousand years, Erestor. When I first came, it was to serve Maedhros, my kinsman and lord as Captain of the Noldorian army just before the Battle of Sudden Flame. I commanded a battalion of soldiers who defended the northern border and held firm our part of the siege.  
  
“The Dagor Bragollach began on a cold winter’s night, when Morgoth let loose a river of fire and clouds of choking dust and ash from Thrangorodrim. Under cover of chaos and destruction, he advanced, led by Glaurung, the father of all dragons, who meant to consume us with his fiery breath. Behind him, balrogs and black, swarming armies of Orcs, each attacking in separate waves, so that no battalion could come to the aid of another. So many perished…yet still we persevered. Even though the March of Maedhros was overrun, Himring stood firm, thanks in no small part to the valor and tenacity of Maedhros. The war waged until spring, when the forces of Morgoth finally dispersed and fled to the hills. This land, though, was never truly free from war. ”  
  
Hallaran closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to dismiss the dark thoughts. “From that point onward, war was all I knew. Fighting was in my blood and every time I closed my eyes, the clang of swords against shields filled my dreams. I ate it, breathed it, and lived it for three millennia, traveling to fight as I was trained to do. Whenever fighting erupted in the east, I heeded the call of duty, but now...there is no call to heed so here I am.”  
  
“So, even after the defeat of Sauron at the Battle of the Black Gate, you came back to this place?”  
  
Hallaran gave Erestor a rueful smile. “I had nowhere else to go. I was adrift, and this was the only spot to which I could anchor. Besides, we have history, this fortress and I. It is where I received my commission as a commander under Maedhros. It is where I refined my swordsmanship, perfected the long-range archery shot and learned hand-to-hand combat. It is one of the few constants in my life. This is home.”  
  
“What about friends? Kinsmen? Couldn’t you have gone with them?”  
  
“My kinsmen accepted the pardon of the Valar and sailed at the end of the First Age. I did live in Forlindon with other friends for a time after the Last Battle. Most had family awaiting their return, though, and I did not want to be a burden or an afterthought. Eventually, they settled in to a more normal life. I felt useless, out of place, so I came back here. This is the only place that I ever really belonged. I like it here. It’s quiet.”  
  
The pair sat for a time in silence until Erestor broke it. “Nobody awaits me in Aman. Not one single soul,” he said quietly. “Elrond has reunited with his wife. Ecthelion waits for Glorfindel. Lindir, too, has loved ones to greet him upon his arrival. I will be alone.”  
  
“And that’s why you resist sailing.”  
  
“And that’s why I resist sailing,” Erestor echoed. “But staying here in Middle Earth isn’t really an option, either.”  
  
“You should sail,” said Hallaran, matter-of-fact.  
  
“But everything will be different,” Erestor moaned. “No more lively Rivendell dinners around a warm hearth. No more Wednesday night checkers tournaments or Friday afternoon walks around the gardens. No more tacky Quenya songs. All those traditions, gone.”  
  
Hallaran reached across the table and thumped Erestor right on the forehead. “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Make new traditions! Start over! It’s a chance to be whoever you want to be, Erestor. Stop whining. It’s unbecoming of a Noldo.”  
  
Erestor rubbed the red whelp rising on his forehead and glared at his companion. “I could say the same to you. You’re calling me fearful, yet here you sit right by yourself. It’s like a Silvan calling a Sindar dimwitted.”  
  
Hallaran grinned. “We used to call the Sindar ‘tree rats’ behind their backs. I half expected to see a store of nuts every time I ventured into one of their flets. And I’m not fearful. I enjoy being alone.”  
  
“Whatever. We’re in the same boat, you and I, sitting here talking instead of sailing.”  
  
“Well, you could be in a boat sailing for Aman. Right now, in fact.”  
  
A look of utter disbelief crossed Erestor’s face. “You can’t possibly mean…You want to sail *that* piece of crap all the way to Aman?! How in the nine Nazgul do you expect me to get there in one piece?”  
  
“Oh, not the man-made skiff. That’s only for trips to Lindon and back. There is an Elvish boat that I helped build during my stay near the Gulf of Lune, moored in a protective cove on the west side of the island, fully stocked and ready to go. If you set sail tomorrow morning, you could reach the shores of Aman about the same time as your friends.”  
  
“My friends? How did you know when my friends were sailing?…” It was at that precise moment that realization dawned on Erestor like the rise of the sun itself. “Glorfindel.”  
  
Hallaran feigned ignorance. “Who?”  
  
Erestor stood up, walked around the table and jabbed his finger into Hallaran’s chest. “He put you up to it, didn’t he? He told you I was coming and asked you to convince me to sail. How do you even know him?”  
  
“There are only so many Elven Captains in Middle Earth…myself, Glorfindel, that obtuse young Silvan in Lothlorien with the two equally thick brothers. We all know each other. Glorfindel might have mentioned an old friend the last time we farspoke…Something about a misguided trip to Himling and avoiding the inevitable. I assume he meant you, but I’m not going to convince you to do anything. I’m merely offering you an option.”  
  
“That meddling, impudent, nosy, asinine, fiendish, arrogant son-of-a…” Erestor managed to bite off the final expletive and began a steady to-and-fro pace in front of the kitchen table.  
  
“Well, yes, but he’s Vanyar. They have always been impossible busybodies with nothing better to do than to interfere in one’s everyday life. But you, Erestor…You are a Noldo.  
  
Erestor stopped in his tracks. “And?”  
  
“And, I expect more from you. Noldor do not avoid decisions that need to be made. They do not hide from unpleasant situations or whine when things do not go their way. Do you think Maedhros would have sulked and run away because chess night was about to be disrupted?”  
  
“…Probably not. But what do you want me to do?”  
  
Hallaran shifted in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “You need to face the decision. Give it serious thought instead of running away. Weigh your options. Regardless of what you do, nothing will be the same as it used to be. Life as you used to know it in Rivendell is over.”  
  
“I know that,” snapped Erestor.  
  
“But, you may stay here with me for a while until you decide. I’m in no hurry to leave. We can clear out another of the officer’s quarters for you to use, and you can help me tend the sheep. Nibby will be thrilled. Did you know his favorite thing to do is roll around in a fragrant mixture of mud and feces?”  
  
“You certainly know how to make sheep tending sound enticing.”  
  
“I’m being realistic. Tending sheep is hard, dirty work, but it will give you a sense of what life in Middle Earth would be like should you decide to remain here.”  
  
Erestor felt as if the weight of a dead warg had been lifted from his shoulders. “I accept.”  
  
“Excellent,” said Hallaran. “You can go with me tomorrow to gather the hay for the sheep, but I’d strongly advise you to leave off the cottonseed oil.”  
  
~*~  
  
Their days were filled with work, hard work, but that made the rewards all the sweeter. Together, Hallaran and Erestor made trips to Lindon to barter wool for goods and sell sheep from their ever-increasing flock. After a time, the pair had earned quite a comfortable living.  
  
Their evenings were spent in earnest conversation, debating everything from the news trickling out of Gondor to the politics of coastal Forlindon. Erestor found Hallaran to be both interesting and persuasive, if a bit mule-headed about his beliefs. No amount of arguing could sway him from believing that Forlindon would be better off turning part of the waterfront into a tourist attraction, an idea that Erestor found ridiculous. What in the name of Nienna’s tears would a tourist do all day in Forlindon? Sit in the sun and watch the clouds drift by? Silliness.  
  
But for all their debates and discussions, they avoided one topic in particular: sailing west. It was the pink oliphant in the corner of the room that neither of them wanted to mention. And so time marched on day after day, in a steady if not predictable pace.  
  
“Erestor,” Hallaran began one evening after dinner, “how long have you been here?”  
  
Erestor scratched his chin. “I’m not entirely sure. Three years?”  
  
“Three years, one month and fifteen days.”  
  
“I didn’t realize you had kept count.” Erestor frowned. He didn’t like where the conversation was headed.”  
  
“I didn’t. Glorfindel did. We farspoke last night after you went to bed.” Hallaran leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “He asked if you were going to sail, and I had no answer to give him.”  
  
“You should have told him to mind his own business.”  
  
“That wouldn’t work. He’s a Vanya. He minds everyone’s business but his own.” Hallaran chuckled. “In this case, I can’t blame him. He misses his friend.”  
  
“I miss him, too,” Erestor said softly. “I miss them all. Even Lindir and his filthy songs.”  
  
“Have you thought about it? Sailing, I mean.”  
  
“Some. More recently, since the weather grows colder and the nights grow longer. I am guessing that the residents of Aman do not have frost on their hind ends.”  
  
“Or frostbitten toes. The weather there remains nice year-round. On a frigid night like this one, a warm evening sounds nothing short of divine.”  
  
Erestor looked uneasy. “Actually, I wasn’t truthful. I’ve thought about it a lot,” he admitted. “A whole lot. After spending all night elbow-deep in a ewe’s backside last spring, I considered stealing the boat in the middle of the night and leaving you here to deal with the rest of the pregnant sheep. Nasty, stinky and foul! Without question, the most disgusting experience I have ever, ever had, and that includes cleaning up after Elrond’s twin sons.”  
  
“More unpleasant than the incident in the barn, I take it.”  
  
“I thought we agreed never to mention that again.”  
  
Hallaran grinned. “The ram didn’t actually mount you.”  
  
“No, but he sniffed me in an alarmingly intimate way which was likely a precursor to being mounted.”  
  
“I warned you not to use cottonseed oil on your skin.”  
  
“Lesson learned.”  
  
“So, does this mean you are ready to sail?”  
  
Erestor sighed. “I think so, yes. As much as I will miss Middle Earth, I miss my friends more. Even if I do nothing in Aman but macramé potholders and watch paint dry, I will at least be among friends. And I will never again have to inspect the business end of an ewe.”  
  
“Well said, my friend. In fact…I think I may sail with you.”  
  
Erestor looked shocked. “But I thought you loved it here!”  
  
“I did…I do, but having you here reminded me how much I missed having a friend. Solitude is a fine thing, but friendship is a blessing.”  
  
“What about the sheep? You can’t just leave them to fend for themselves.”  
  
“There is a man in Lindon who offered to purchase the entire farm. I think tomorrow, I will sail to mainland and accept his offer.”  
  
~*~  
  
It took the pair less than a week to pack their belongings and prepare the farm for the new owners. So, after one last scratch of Nibby’s ears, Erestor and Hallaran set sail for Aman.  
  
The ship was modest, especially when compared to the white ship that had spirited Elrond away to Valinor, but finely crafted with decorative painted inlays and adorned with crisp sails that snapped in the morning breeze. Pale sunlight tipped the crests of the waves with gleaming silver and edged the tall masts in shimmering white. Any lingering worries Erestor had about the seaworthiness of the vessel disappeared once it glided swan-like through the shallow waters of the cove and out to the deep sea beyond.  
  
As Himling shrank in the distance, Erestor stood on the stern of the boat and stared at the receding shoreline. “Our final view of Middle Earth. So many memories. An important occasion such as this needs to be marked by something other than the cry of seagulls.”  
  
Hallaran thought for a moment. “You’re absolutely right. I have just the thing.” He cleared his throat and began to sing a Quenya song in a clear tenor voice.  
  
_If all of the girls were like long blades of grass  
And I were a mower, I’d cut me some ass._  
  
Indeed, it was just the thing. Brilliant, even. Erestor wiped a tear from his eye joined him for the chorus.  
  
_Roll your leg over, roll your leg over  
Roll your leg over, and fuck me till dawn._  
  
  
~*~  
  
The End


End file.
